


Ghosts

by Bluestem



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: I'm so sorry, M/M, Memories, One Shot, Reminiscing, Soul-Crushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7092520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestem/pseuds/Bluestem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old man looks back with the help of a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

An old man sits before a large, shining window.  Outside, green plants are swaying in a buttery light.  It’s a fine day, but he doesn’t notice.  His back is to the window, his rheumy eyes staring inwards at the darkened room.  It is hard to tell if he is awake or asleep—his heavy posture gives no hint.  The blanket folded over his lap suggests sleep, but suddenly he speaks, softly, as if another person were in the room with him.  

“Will you play it for me again?” 

A round creature rolls forwards out of the darkness, nestling against the old man’s legs.  It's glossy lens peers up at him with obvious concern.

[But...it will make you cry...]  It moans hesitantly.

The old man nods.  “I know…I just need to see it again.”  He gives the droid a watery smile. 

The droid backs up a few paces from the chair with an almost human sigh, lifts it’s half-dome head, and projects a beam of glittering blue light.  The image shivers in midair, level with the old man’s face, and solidifies into the shape of a man sitting on a low stool, a guitar in his hands.  The old man’s breath catches as the image sharpens. 

“You ready, buddy?”  The holoprojection speaks.  Tears flood the old man’s eyes at the sound of that voice and his chest aches, stabbed through with longing and agony, and yet at the same time so joyful of the sound that he wishes it would never stop.

There is a playback of the droid answering, [Yes, I’m recording.]

“Okay, here goes.”  He drags his fingers across the strings, strumming out a mellow chord and Finn is captivated by the surety of those young hands, of the brightness in his dark, wry eyes, of his easy smile.  He shakes his head.  _So beautiful…he was so beautiful._ He can’t believe now that either of them were ever so young, so full of vitality.  He traces every angle of that handsome face with the desperate hunger of a starving man, as if the force of his will could bring him back.  A lump tightens his throat as Poe begins to sing. 

_I’ve seen a lot of crazy things_

_Watched Sith and Jedi fight_

_Flown from here to there, and back again_

_But everything I’ve ever known_

_It pales next to your light_

The old man’s lips move, silently reciting the verses he’s listened to countless times; when he wakes alone in the night, when he fixes his small meal, when he sees a ship darting joyously through the blue sky.

_Never thought I’d feel this way again_

_Thought I’d stick with staying safe_

_But when I see you—_

The music stops abruptly, Poe glancing up to someone standing just outside of BB-8’s field of view.  “Aww—you weren’t supposed to hear that yet!”  Poe exclaims, scandalized, but grinning all the same.

Finn watches as the younger version of himself enters the projection. The old man chuckles weakly, amazed at his youth.

“Sorry,” Finn laughs as he bends down and plants a kiss on the top of the pilot’s tousled head.   “Did you write that?”

“Yeah, for you, and now you messed it up.  I was gonna surprise you with it.”

Finn sits across from him.  “Play it again?”

Poe pauses, looking for a moment like he might put up his guitar, and then he gives him a playful glare that goes through the old man’s body like fire.  “Okay.”  Poe turns to face the droid and a sob catches in the old man's chest.  “Might as well stop recording, BB-8.  The jig’s up.”

The image jostles and then goes dark, though it remains bright in the old man’s streaming eyes.  He grimaces, his narrow shoulders shaking as the sob breaks free and he draws a wiry hand across his face.  He cries noisily, messily, and if anyone but the droid had been there he would’ve been embarrassed.  Finn wishes to every god he’s ever heard of that Poe had finished that song; that his younger self hadn’t interrupted him and cut the recording short.

He can’t remember how it went.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well...that hurt. Next time I feel the need to write a short story while it rains and thunders, someone just punch me instead. I've listened to the song "Ghosts" by Dan Fogelberg so many times in a row recently that it crept through into this. Thanks for reading this sob-fest.


End file.
